


The Art of Conversation

by fake_years



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Siblings, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fake_years/pseuds/fake_years
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Harriet Watson's relationship depicted on three different occasions - before, during and after Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Conversation

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen a ton on the Holmes brothers, which I absolutely love, but decided to try my hand at the Watsons.

I.

It had been one of the most bizarre days in John’s recent memory.

He furrowed his brow at the tension in his shoulders, could feel the moisture on his palm cradling the phone. John was out of sorts. It was just Harry. Maybe they hadn’t talked in quite some time, but all the same. It wasn’t quite status quo for a complete stranger to propose they share a flat on first meeting, then proceed to drivel off details of John’s life and general psyche with all the breathing-room of a telly drug advertisement's listed side effects.

And yet John’s pulse had quickened in a not entirely unpleasant manner. Maybe it was the way the man- Sherlock’s- eyes had looked simultaneously piercing and detached. It was the sort of trick you only saw on the late night programs – street magic and the sort –spaced between ads for miracle pills and life saving kitchen appliances. All the same, John realized that his lips had quirked up into a smile at the memory. The phone continued to ring. Nothing quite like being flayed open to get one's blood pumping, he thought. The man was clearly unstable. This Sherlock wasn't the sort that you got involved with, of course. His kitchen echoed back his doubt in the silence. He straightened the sleeves on his jumper and cleared his throat.

Maybe Harry wouldn’t pick up. The temptation to ignore the whole effort of reaching out to her - to family - bit hard at John’s heels. It would be so simple to crawl back into the secure arms of solitude. He’d made it to the last ring. Tendrils of soothing calm stretched over his limbs at the idea that he'd try her again later. Then her voice interrupted his thoughts. Through the weight on his chest, John asked if she had eaten yet.

  
___

Dusk had just fallen when they met at the sandwich shop. The neon lights flickered on as they entered. As was her habit, Harry chose the middle-most table. John didn’t protest, despite the lack of leg room and the proximity to the bathrooms. The waiter treated them with unease.

A passerby could most likely tell the relation between the two of them, though only just barely. They both had their father’s thoughtful forehead. Their builds were similar. Niether were exceptionally tall. Yet Harry’s extra weight cushioned her arms and backside instead of her middle, and her eyes curved downward like their mother. Her haircut was short and choppy, fringe in disarray over the remnants of old piercings dotting her left eyebrow.

Once served, John sat under the fluorescents, chewing around wilted lettuce and two friendless slices of ham. Both Watson children avoided the black cane lying on the dirtied tile floor. When Harry finally spoke, her voice boomed. “Total shit, the service is here,” she broadcasted to John, as well as the waiter's retreating back. John ashamedly avoided her gaze and scoffed in disagreement.

The waiter, to his credit, continued helping a nearby table as if nothing had been uttered. John felt his cheeks warm as he toyed with the blunt prongs of his fork and the useless ridges of his knife, still in their filmy plastic packaging. He left his bag of vinegar-flavored crisps unopened.

After dinner, Harry invited him up to her flat. They sat on the sofa, side by side, facing the empty television screen. Slices of rich, store-bought pie on lightweight paper plates rested on their knees.

John cleared his throat into the silence. “Might’ve found someone,” he said before clarifying, “About the flat mate business that is.” He immediately felt the shift of the cushion as she perked up. It wasn’t a real confession, but it certainly felt like it, John mused - naked in his the loneliness and lack of funds. He quickly reached for his glass and took another swig of Tropicana, one of Harry’s few items in her sparsely stocked refrigerator.

“That’s brilliant!” She exclaimed through a mouthful, unashamedly enthused. John bristled.

For a majority of their adult lives, Harry had been stuck in a game of catch-up, in a loop of trying to repair the past damages. John couldn’t forget the sinking, powerless feeling as he watched her laugh open-mouthed and disoriented, polishing off another glass. As soon as the liquid appeared in glass, it disappeared down her throat.

It was in those moments when John felt most drained; when both he and Harry had lost count. When her fumbling of the door handles and stumbling over words was no longer funny. When it had grown quiet and no one else was laughing along. The sting of failed attempts didn’t so much lessen over time as it did persist. Harry’s impassioned, well-intentioned promises gradually began to fall on deaf ears. Uninterrupted by bouts of hope, it became a steady constant, something more manageable.

She tried to ignore the way her habit had become another dull pain in John’s eyes.

“You wanker! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Harry playfully shoved at his side.

“Ow, settle down, yea?” John clutched his arm, making a show of it. “I just found out myself!”

“On with it then! Where’s the place? Who’s the poor sod? Trick another bird with the ol’ Watson charm?”

John chuckled, “Will you stop doing that?” He abandoned his pie on the coffee table and set his hands straight, palms flat on his thighs. Unable to ignore the hope rising in his chest, John straightened his posture. “First off, not every woman I stayed with ended badly.”

Harry snorted as a response. John scoffed, “I’m serious. Do you want to hear it or not?”

She leaned back into the cushion and mimed a zip over her mouth.

“Said his name was Sherlock Holmes,” he tried to keep the improbable excitement out of his voice. “Now mind you, I haven’t even seen…”

“Funny name, that.” Harry cut in, wrinkling her nose, “What’s he like?”

“Well,” John paused to scratch the back of his neck. “Honestly? Brilliant, but seems a bit off.”

“What? He a serial killer or something?”

“Here’s hoping,” John smiled and lifted his drink to Harry. “Cheers.”

 

II.

The cold whipped across John's cheeks and the exposed tip of his nose. Jacket and scarf rendered useless, John still pulled at the fabric up to his ears as he sniffled desperately along the broken sidewalk. His movements were stiff and brisk, constrained by his pride, too self conscious to run away from the weather at full speed. Sherlock always strode down streets, riverbanks and nuclear waste plants completely unaffected by the weather- didn't he - no matter how far the temperature dropped.

Flat, gray building-fronts blurred with the sky overhead. In the fading light, only the hollowed black windows and bold lines of graffiti were distinguishable landmarks. John halted in front of a chain link fence and reached into his pocket. His stiff, tender fingers grasped for the flimsy ribbon of paper crammed inside. He scanned the scribbled address, then at the numbers on the side of the building. John hadn’t seen Harry in a good six months. He hadn’t even realized she’d changed addresses until her Christmas card came in the mail.

John buzzed his way inside.

Harry’s belongings looked odd in the new, unfamiliar space. Still, the sight of old furnishings was a somewhat of a relief. It would appear that Harry was between girlfriends. Not a Gerber daisy or a decorative rug in sight. Harry hadn’t done much in the way of decoration, with exception to their dad's old Elvis clock and a bookcase stacked with colorful spines of action films. The walls were largely bare with wide-open stretches of toothpaste green paint uninterrupted.

John couldn’t help noting the contrast between Harry’s and his own flat. He felt a sudden pang of affection for Sherlock’s lively piles of rubbish.

“Roast should be ready in 20, give or take,” Harry announced by way of greeting. She stood hovering in the middle of the room, wearing a new button-up that didn’t look at all appropriate for cooking. “Sorry about the mess, these bloody fucking asparagus have been giving me hell.”

John shrugged off his coat and set it over the nearest armchair. “Need help?”

“No need, s'all under control!” She disappeared back into the kitchen before reappearing with two glasses of dark, plum-colored liquid. “There’s er, not much to do at the moment, except for the waiting part,” she smiled apologetically. John couldn’t help eyeing the dark drink sliding up and down the sides of her presented wine glass. Sherlock’s words rang in his mind. “Oh untwist your titties, it’s just some cran-pom-something or other juice.”

“Didn’t say anything, now did I?” said John, looking decently bashful. Harry rolled her eyes.

After a start the chat turned to niceties. Harry regaled him with tales of the dating world. Her hands and arms flung as she spoke, punctuating each emotion.

“She’s on this stars kick, right? Astrological shit and all that. So takes my hand and starts tracing these patterns. Now it’s all bollocks in my opinion, but,” She took another deep drink from her glass and pressed her lips together in thought. “This one was gorgeous though. Lord knows I've got a weakness for the weird ones. Like I was saying, this whole time she’s staring straight into my eyes. I figure it’s getting somewhere, then just typical she-”

John’s phone suddenly lit. He looked down to see a new text: _In linen closet. Wrapped in some sort of towel most likely._ –SH. John cursed under his breath and fumbled to close the message screen.

“That Sherlock?” she paused in her story.

“Afraid so,” he glanced up from the screen, “Best reply. Gets in moods sometimes if he’s ignored for too long.” John offered an apologetic smile before ducking his head back down to type out a response: _I dont even want to know how you think u kno about Harrys supposd booze hiding spot. This is bloody ridiculous_.

Sherlock’s reply was nearly instantaneous. _Ridiculous is your insistence on keeping me out of my own bathroom while you’re occupying the shower. This, however, is a perfectly rational deduction. – SH_

_Our bathroom. You know im not doing this agin._  
_Also, still my sister._

_I thought you deserved to know – SH_

_Ive had quite enough of it thanks. Now bugger off._

For a moment, it seemed as if Sherlock had indeed left him be. But John knew better. After several unusually prolonged beats, John’s mobile finally vibrated in his hand.

_You left your shirt under my bed, if you were at all interested in retrieving it. – SH_

The tips of John’s ears burned hot. It wasn't as if he was ashamed of what had happened. Not really. But- just leave it to Sherlock to bring it up like that, oh-so casually in a text. It was all so new, new and honeslty terrifying. He was certain this was Sherlock's idea of reminding John where he belonged.

There was no way of anyone knowing, especially not Harry, and yet John felt more at ease hastily pocketing the mobile out of sight.

When he looked back up, she was indeed watching him with a strange expression.

“What? Have I got something on my face?”

“No,” she chuckled. She perched herself at the edge of couch cushion, clasping and unclasping her hands. “He, uh, seems nice, Sherlock.”

John laughed despite himself.

“What?” Harry cocked her head to the side in confusion.

“Nothing, nothing,” he chuckled, “Just not a widely shared opinion is all.”

“He’s good for you though, yea? You get on?” She insisted.

John privately wondered about dinner. Harry once again altered her line of questioning. “John, your Sherlock, he could – could find somebody? If you asked?”

“Jesus, could he?” John’s eyes twinkled, “I reckon he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep at night if he didn’t have at least one good kidnapping a week, I mean not that..." Realization halted his speech. “Wait Harry, Is somebody missing?”

Harry avoided his eyes. She instead fidgeted, interlocking her fingers flexing them up and down like spider’s legs.

“Harry, for the love of- what’s going on?” John felt unease edged with panic bubbling up inside him.

She squared her shoulders in anticipation of a fight. “I need to talk to Jessica.”

“You can’t be serious.” He deadpanned. 

“I don’t see how it’s so unreasonable,” Harry huffed, “A few minutes is all I need! She’s gone and stayed with some friend or whatever, and she won't give me the address. All I’m asking for is a couple minutes John. I just need to explain. Few minutes is all I need.”

“Jesus Christ,” John breathed, falling back into the couch. “Harry, are you serious? Jessica?”

“I just want a chat! What, that a fucking crime now or something?” Harry shouted back. “You’d think I was asking for a damn murder or the bloody Hope diamond. I’m your sister for crying out loud!”

“I’ve got to take a piss,” John announced abruptly before standing up and walking away.

He navigated down the hallway, correctly identifying the door on his first try. Once inside, he turned on the faucet and wet his hand. The overhead light buzzed and flickered. The cold water over his face did little to distract the thrumming inside. He breathed in and out, glancing back up at his reflection. His thoughts went to the linen closet.

John waited a moment longer before quietly opening the door back into the hallway. The living room didn’t do much to illuminate this end of the apartment. Not a sound came from Harry. He took another glance around and made his way to the closet door.

It swung open with a squeak that shot straight through John’s chest. Composing himself, he finally peered inside. Harmless stacks of striped towels and plain bed sheets stared up at him. He took a breath.

His hand reached experimentally towards the back. His stomach dropped as his palm hit the hard outline of a bottle beneath terry cloth. John closed his eyes. Goddamn Sherlock.

Finally, the sounds of cursing caught his ear, followed by the banging of kitchenware on the stove. John shut the door and made his way towards the sound.

 

III.

John was well on his way to becoming well and truly pissed. His head already felt unnaturally heavy, lulling towards the surface of the bar of its own accord. Somewhere far off, Harry was waving down the bartender. Hordes of strangers crowded him on all sides, their chatter an ever-rising tidal wave of sound. They were all younger faces.

John had never felt the aches in his bones or the thinness of his skin more keenly. He hated their clunky jewelry and smart glasses, their glossy faces and unlined mouths. A song came on, to which a small group of young women belted out the opening lines before dissolving into laughter. John didn’t even recognize the tune. John wondered what could be so funny while Sherlock lay in the ground. While Sherlock’s name was being dragged through the dirt, like some two-bit politician, as if he were just like everybody else.

The liqueur kept coming courtesy of Harry. John accepted sheepishly as she patted him on the back. Her coca cola sat untouched- its ice melting, sweating on the napkin, the paper gone soggy and thin. Through the haze he thought he saw Harry instructing for a new drink. “Be a love, just a splash of rum in the next coke, eh?”

She plopped back down on the stool next to him with a wide grin that only made her eyes look smaller. His thighs and back ached from sitting on the stool for god knew how long. Throngs of people continued to press in. A television in the corner of the room played the nightly news. Harry glanced at John. His eyes- glassy and unseeing- were fixated on some invisible point ahead. Watching him unsettled her with an abrupt force. She’d suddenly do anything to break the spell, if only to stop her own growing discomfort.

“You believe they’re allowed to air this shit?” she nudged his arm and directed him towards the television. Onscreen a bikini-clad woman carried on an animated conversation with an exaggerated Asian character and a chimp. “Right shame is what it is.”

His expression barely flickered with recognition. He pursed his lips and dutifully nodded. “No, yea, ‘tis.”

A redheaded woman in an ill-fitting blouse angled herself in the space besides John to better call out the bartender. Her elbow nearly knocked over his rust-colored drink as she shifted to better flag him down.

Grining wolfishly, Harry whistled low, “D’you check out that the knockers on that one?”

John wiped his hand over his face, biting out each word, “For the love of god, could you please just shut up about tits for one bloody second?”

A wave of guilt turned John’s blood cold upon seeing Harry’s stunned expression.

“I- I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I didn’t…”

The hurt in her expression swiftly gave way to forgiveness. She waved it off, “No harm done.” and even ventured a smile. "S'ppose I could tune it down a bit."

John rubbed at his eyes. "No, I shouldn't have said that."

"No need to grovel now." she jokingly assured him.

John felt himself swaying slightly on his stool. His stare drifted listlessly back to the pictures moving on the television. A football match unfurled. Players volleyed from one end of the pitch to another, black-boxed subtitles alternately obscuring the score.

The screen once again flashed to advertisements, this time a breakfast advert of children getting ready for school. Harry scrolled absent-mindedly through the web browser on her phone.

She scoffed, finally noticing the hour. When she turned to report to John, she caught him clumsily shoving off the bar. At last he managed to extricate himself from the seat. He slurred an apology over the screeching of his chair’s legs against the floor.

Harry took a moment to process the situation before she began to push her way through the crowd after him, calling his name into the clamor of bodies.

She found John bent over at the feet of a much larger man, the contents of his stomach splattered over leather work boots. Harry watched in horror as he turned away from his friends with a look of utter revulsion.

“Fuckin’ hell! You mental, ya fuckin’ tosspot?” the man barked. His friends laughed. John bent further into himself. “Hey! How about you answer me before I smash your bloody head in?”

“Don’t you fucking touching him,” Harry shoved her way up to John and took hold of him under his arms. Her lack of strength became readily apparent as John’s body refused to budge.

People around them had begun to stare. The man crowded into Harry’s space, “Listen ya fuckin’ dyke, I don’t know who in the hell you are but this bastard outta be taught a fuckin’ lesson.”

The room buzzed with a mixture of anticipation and unease. Harry caught the eye of a large man with a purposeful gait and an unamused expression walking towards them.

“Leave it Rob,” one of the man’s friends pulled at his arm. “They’re not worth it.”

The man begrudgingly withdrew, but not before grumbling a few last choice words. Harry bit back a litany of scathing replies. She instead forced herself to focus on John. Seizing the opportunity, she guided him the rest of the way towards the back door. The crowd now quickly parted away from them.

Outside, Harry took a large gulp of air and released John to support himself. They now found themselves in a scantily lit alleyway, adorned by a large metal dumpsters and grimy puddles of London water. Harry’s boots ground damp cigarette butts further into the pavement.

John had propped himself against the wall with his forehead pressed into the dirty brick. Mucus shone on his upper lip. His once dazed expression crumbled as if in pain. When he finally spoke, it was barely a murmur.

“Threw out his toothbrush, God, Harry, I-” John left his sleeve to wipe at his mouth for the remnants of sick. His sentences came out labored, "God I don't know how I-" 

She reached out an unsteady hand to touch his back, simply pressing into his shirt. “John…”

He suddenly slammed his fist against the brick siding with violent force that made her falter backwards.

Harry watched, unable to either move or respond.

Later, she would hoist him up the stares of her apartment and onto her living room couch. Harry would pull out an old blanket, saved from their mother’s, and place it over John’s horizontal form.

The light from the street would illuminate his slack features, having exhausted himself to the point of unconsciousness. Harry would think back on the number of times the roles had been reversed. Her heart would beg for the numbness, the voddy hidden away in her linen closet.

She would go and fetch a waste bin and a glass of water for John instead.

She would fall asleep in her clothes with the taste of strong drink on her tongue and the wish that she could have done better.

Outside the pub, Harry kept her fingers awkwardly pressed to John’s shivering back, settling the two of them as best she knew how.


End file.
